


Asystole

by constellatio



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Azure Moon Route, Canon-Typical Violence, Description of Injuries, F/M, Period-Typical Sexism, description of war, dimileth, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29158101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constellatio/pseuds/constellatio
Summary: Let it be known that Byleth Eisner crawled her way out of hell; and that she did it screaming.(Thirty moments in Byleth's life)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Asystole

**Author's Note:**

> 'I hate' she altered with an end,  
> That followed it as gentle day,  
> Doth follow night, who like a fiend  
> From heaven to hell is flown away.  
> 'I hate', from hate away she threw,  
> And saved my life, saying 'not you'.
> 
> Shakespeare, Sonnet 145

  1. You would think with the name ‘Ashen Demon’, she was born with scales littering every inch of her body, an undying thirst for the blood of the men she hunted, and a forked tongue.  
  
Instead, she is born silent. The scales never form, and in their place, there is only skin no different to any other child’s. She inherits a head full of thick curls, indigo eyes, and a silent heart. As she grows, the curls fade, the forked tongue never grows, but her heart remains still and unbeating. There is a hunger within her that is different to the other mercenaries they travel with, and it is never satisfied until there is a blade in her hand.  
  
(You see, when you start to feed that hunger so young, it never leaves. You are left begging for its scraps. You will always be bloodthirsty; you are always starving).  
  
And that is how the Demon gets her name.  
  
Byleth dreams a thousand wars through a thousand eyes. It takes one night for her to realise they are all the same. It does not matter whether she is atop the horde of pegasus, lance raised high, or at the frontlines, begging for mercy as the fire strikes the ground around her. It all ends the same way.  
  
_Tell me, Nemesis. Do you recall the Red Canyon?_



  1. It is the child (who is more imagination than human) that pulls her from her sleep. An emerald mane cascades down the child's back, spilling over the throne it drowsed on. She does not have time to question the gilded amulet atop its head or the thin, unnaturally pointed ears before the girl begins to yawn.  
  
‘It is almost… time to… begin…’ it manages to mumble before succumbing to sleep.  
  
Proving that Byleth Eisner never had a choice.



  1. ‘This will be your first time in the monastery. I’d be happy to show you around.’  
  
The Prince is everything a knight should be, chivalrous, noble, and too kind for anyone in their party. The opposite of every man Byleth has ever been raised with.  
  
The boy's handsome, with blond hair that tumbled onto his face, and a gentleness in his smile, he's like a page ripped out of a fairytale of maidens and kings. The girl, Edelgard, does not look her way. On the rare occasion that she does, Byleth feels as though her piercing violet eyes can see everything.  
  
She will never remember her first conversation with the Prince, nor will she ever understand why she blindly threw herself in front of an axe for the Princess. The heir to the Adrestian Empire is grateful nonetheless, unlike another.  
  
(‘Honestly! What are you accomplishing with that little stunt?!’ The child shrieked, veins bulging beneath porcelain skin. ‘It’s like you’re trying to get me killed, you fool! Afterall, if you don’t know the value of your own life, you’re not going to protect it very well, are you?’)  
  
Garreg Mach is nothing like anything she has ever seen before. Every inch of every stone is perfectly placed within its walls, rich with the history of its creation. The peak of its spirals blends with the sky above and fades into white clouds. Claude claims that its summit can be seen for miles. Her father grumbles that the only fathomable reason they built it so tall is to remind all of Fódlans citizens that the ‘Cult of Seiros’ is always watching. The two of them had spent years living on the road, camping in fields, and sleeping on their own horses. When they needed to bathe it would either mean waiting until the next inn they stayed at or stripping off and skinny-dipping in the blue. So to think that her father had spent years here.  
  
‘As you know,’ her father explains, wanting this topic to be over as soon it began. ‘The majority of folks in Fódlan are devout followers of the teachings of Seiros. The leader of that ridiculously large religious organisation is the Archbishop, Lady Rhea.’  
‘Thank you for your patience, Jeralt,' a tightly-clipped voice announced. Out of the shadows of the ancient monastery emerged a green-haired follower, who came with a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes.  
‘Right...’ Jeralt offers slowly, realising he’d been overheard. A flushed scarlet creeps up the nape of his neck. ‘...Hello.’  
  
She thinks that if she had been born with a working heart, it would beat solely for him.



  1. Her quiet and expressionless features allow her to play the role of the fool almost too well.  
  
‘Oh my! A new addition to the Officer’s Academy!’ The girl named Flayn (who looks so young, yet speaks too old) exclaims as they are introduced. ‘I am so very pleased to meet you, Professor.’   
  
It would take an idiot to see that something did not add up as the three green-haired Seiros worshippers stood before her. Three sets of sea-green eyes gaze upon her, with their too-pale skin and dated garments. Seteth's mouth thins with disapproval, Flayn practically squeals from delight whilst Rhea's dreary gaze remains fixated on Byleth, as if she were searching for something and was disappointed in the answer.  
  
(‘You can call me Sothis,’ the emerald child who had looked far too much like all of them declared. ‘But I’m also known as “The Beginning.”’)  
  
‘Please,’ Seteth began as if he could see the cogs moving in her head, ‘do not disappoint the Archbishop. That is all.’   
Seteth’s disapproval is no surprise, which leads Byleth not to expect to move in smoothly here. She has never had friends. Quiet from birth, she had been unapproachable to all her age. Emotionless all her life, they put a sword in her hands and were surprised when they found out she was merciless.  
  
‘No! I really can’t believe it,’ exclaims Annette on the verge of a panic attack. Her ginger hair sits in low, looped bunches, of which were shaking as a vision of horror masks her face. ‘But I was speaking to you so casually, as though we were companions!’ Byleth, who has never cared for friends, finds herself unwillingly interrupting the girl as soon as she spots tears.  
  
‘I don’t mind if you treat me as a friend.’ Instead of helping, the girl's face scrunches in shame as her embarrassment seeps in.  
‘I’ll admit, it doesn’t sit well with me either,’ Dimitri remarks, his gentle face transforming into a conflicted frown. ‘After all, we wish to show you due respect.’  
‘If we already speak this way to our future King, we may as well relax our speech with our professor too, right?’ The voice that sticks up for her belongs to Sylvain, a smug grin on his face as he sends a wink her way. She sends a glare as cold as steel his way, and the flirt's face turns a flaming red that matches his hair. ‘If the professor says it’s okay, shouldn’t that be enough?’  
‘I concede,’ Dimitri eventually sighs. ‘If the professor says it’s fine, we ought to accept that kindness gratefully.  
‘As for me,’ Ingrid begins, emerald eyes strained and tired. ‘I'm not sure I can manage.’  
‘You don’t have to force yourself if it’s too difficult,’ begins a melodic voice as light as air. Mercedes' ashen blonde hair drapes like silk over her shoulder, Byleth wishes she had the luxury of being able to grow her own hair that long. ‘You’re fine with that too, right, Professor?  
‘Right,’ she murmurs as her class dissolves into a chaos of noise and disarray.   
  
As a dull throbbing begins in her temples at their rowdy voices, she finds herself hoping Seteth’s disapproval will allow her and her father leave sooner rather than later.  
  
  

  2. Byleth, whilst you could describe as deadly, silent, and vicious, is excellent at following orders. So, she does her best at this new job. She creates individualised lesson plans every week, studies every book she can from that ancient library whilst chasing down students with their lost items. Her weekends are spent introducing herself to everyone, inviting them for tea in her free time hoping that they don’t believe her to be the evil demon gossip makes her out to be.  
  
No matter how much of this she does, Rhea’s impassive nature remains the same.  
  
‘I hope that, in time, you will see my classes improvements,’ she murmurs to the Archbishop. The Archbishop nods heavily, as though bending her neck requires great effort and she isn't quite sure if Byleth is worthy of that yet.  
  
She is quiet, obedient, and seething inside.  
  
‘Don’t take it to heart,’ her father tells her as he slides a bottle of Adrestian wine across his desk. There is a secret stash full of various ales and spirits that he has already hidden somewhere in his office. ‘Rhea… well, she’s Rhea. Besides, if we just keep our heads down then the sooner we can leave.’  
  
She is quick, obedient, and knows when to spot a lie.  
  
This isn’t temporary- as much as they both wish it were. As the weeks pass, her father’s missions become longer and are further away each time he leaves. The longer he is gone, the more she finds herself falling for the monastery’s charms. Garreg Mach is breathtaking and incomparable to any other place she's ever been. She wakes to the ringing of bells and the smell of freshly cooked food each morning. As she walks, students atop Pegasus soar above her head and, if you have the time, you can search to find nearly every species of Fodlan’s cats and dogs waiting to be petted on every corner. At night, there was silence, no brawling inns and no chill from camping in fields, just a warm, quiet bed to go to with the soft glow of candles lighting her way.  
  
‘The Cult of Seiros,’ her father grunts as they are forced into attending Sunday prayer. Cult or not, she no longer cares. As long they are allowed to stay with one another and can sleep without fear of waking to a knife at her throat, then she can take Rhea’s eyes perversely following her every Sunday.  
  
That begins her routine, with little to no interaction from anyone else. Until the aftermath of the mock battle.  
‘I’m invited?’ She asks, horrified as her class clusters around her.  
‘Of course!’ Dimitri exclaims, his smile unable to hide the weariness in his eyes. ‘Why wouldn’t you be?’  
‘Come now, professor!’ Sylvain pouts. Still blissfully unaware (or in outright denial) that his flirting does not work on her, he puffs his chest out and tries his best puppy-dog eyes. ‘We can’t very well celebrate without the key to our victory present.’  
‘He’s right! He really is!’ Annette gushed, half-giddy from their achievement. Byleth isn’t used to receiving so many compliments. As soon as they continue to spill from her class, she feels her eyes glaze and herself withdrawing.   
  
‘I don’t mean to intrude,’ Dimitri whispers, jolting her to realise that their class has disappeared. ‘But... you don’t look too happy for someone who just won.’  
‘You’re mistaken,’ she responds, not quite sure what has transpired in the last few minutes. Furrowed lines bury themselves deep into his face, as a look of disapproval tells her that he knows she lies.  
‘You say that, but your eyes tell a different story,’ he pauses, thinking, before meeting her eyes. ‘I know we only just met, so this may be difficult for you, but… I’d love nothing more than to share our happiness with you. Joy can be so fleeting, after all.’  
  
He extends his arm ready for her to take, just like the Prince’s she’d read about in knight's tales.  
  
Along with the ears, love of fishing, the crease in their smiles, and a twisted sense of humour, it appeared that Byleth also inherited her father's unwavering loyalty to those who offer even a glimpse of kindness their way.  
  

  3. Byleth Eisner was born without fear.  
That, and a beating heart.  
  
Fear does not come hand in hand with war or rage or violence, so it is only blind fury that consumes her. It is a wrath that even her own father fears. It is a hunger that is devoted solely to its love for her.  
Jealousy often comes hand in hand with love, whether you ask for it or not. She learns that the hard way. This hunger of hers lets her taste what normalcy could be like. Let’s her dip her toes into what joy, fear, hatred, and love must feel like, but never too much. It is a weight shackled around her neck that tightens when it is done letting others have their way with her. For love was not in her heart, laughter is as foreign as Almyra and fear has no place in her skin.  
  
It has never touched her, will never touch her. Until she is forced to take her students into a real battle.  
‘I did it, see!’ Tears spill from Annette’s eyes as she extends blood-soaked hands to her teacher. ‘I’m a great fighter!’  
  
She does not know fear and she does not know pain. So, tell her, why does it make her want to keel over from forcing her students to kill? What Annette and so many of the others want is her approval, that what they are doing is the right thing.  
  
_They are all so young,_ Byleth thinks as she looks at their horrified faces, _they are all so young-and look what I have done to them._ Sick, she is only able to offer a nod before stumbling her way to the frontlines with Dimitri. Annette crumbles to the ground, eyes unable to leave the bandit she had just killed.  
  
Only a few in her small class are aware that protecting your own life often comes at the cost of someone else's. There is a reason she is named the Ashen Demon. She has plunged blades into the eyes of strangers for less coin than what she earns now, broken the bones of those who tried to claim her in her sleep, and slung arrows into the throats of those years younger than herself.  
  
_I regret nothing_ , she would spit if they dared question her, _this is war; I simply buried the axe before my enemy could._ They do not, instead they watch in horror as that hunger claws its way out from whatever hole she has tried to bury it. Ignoring the sickened looks of her students, it uses her blade to scream its own idea of mercy and plunges her blade deep into Kostas.  
  
(It is the Faldarius boy who silently helps Annette up and guides her back to Mercedes and their Professor, after Byleth has finished retching).



  1. Blood has nothing to do with love, and that is the curse of the Blue Lion house.  
  
She learns this from her students. It is Sylvain, Felix, and Dorothea who comfort a distraught Ingrid after her father’s letter contains details of an arranged marriage settled for her.  
  
'Fathers,' Felix sneers in his own surly attempt to comfort his friend. 'They just disappoint you,’  
  
The rage she first felt at being forced into this role slowly simmers the more she learns of her students. She realises that Annette’s only reason for being at this school is to find her father. There is gossip from those who have witnessed Annette and Gilbert’s interactions, who claim that she’d bawl, begging her father to acknowledge his abandoned daughter. Byleth makes sure that whoever whispers of this is given extra work to complete and a stern talking to, and whenever she is engaged in conversation with _that_ man, to give him her coldest stares.   
  
She knows Ashe weeps for Lonato more than he will ever admit. Ingrid spends time picking out fables in the library for them to consume and Petra, from the Black Eagles, even begins to only visit the market if he is by her side. Sylvain, if anything, is even more stubborn in refusing to admit his hurt. He goes through women as fast as Byleth goes through weaponry.   
‘I can’t help it,’ he defended as numerous jilted lovers come crying to Byleth. He never could. He could keep his flirtatious act up in public, but it is Mercedes that can see right through him, whilst she might be gentle and soft-spoken, it is her words more than anyone else's that cut through him like a knife.   
  
Dedue is not the worst company if you’re fine with pointed, awkward silences. After Lonato’s death, he insists that Ashe accompanies him on his kitchen duties. You can often find the two in the greenhouse, Dedue explaining every flower and Ashe temporarily leaving his past behind. When embarrassed, Felix’s ears go an ugly crimson colour. It takes hours of them training together for her to realise that the sullen, lone wolf act he portrays is a farce. When Annette brushes past he shushes both Sylvain and Ingrid, then sulks for hours afterward when he cannot make out the tune she hums over the pairs bickering.  
  
To know Ingrid is to know that she is only ever free when she soars far above the clouds. She is always the first to return, always the first to trade concoctions and vulnerary’s at her friend's injured sides. If you pay enough attention, you will often find Sylvain below, staring up as long braided hair, as golden as the first rays of morning sun, flew out behind a certain rider.   
  
Flayn is the latest addition to their small family after her abduction by the hands of Jeritza, the Death Knight. The young girl is traumatised, and wakes howling most nights after the whole ordeal. Byleth begins spending late nights and early mornings when neither her or Flayn can sleep fishing. The girl sits, bundled in heaps of woolen blankets, watching Byleth hook and cast lines until their troubled and overactive minds begin to rest to the soft lulling of the water.  
  
'It’s as though the Goddess has brought us all together,' Mercedes comments in her airy tone as they watch their class train from the side-lines.  
'More like a coincidence,' Byleth responds.  
  
('Oh child,’ Sothis whispers in the back of her mind. ‘You know there's more to it than that.')  
  
What she does know is that there is something dark in Faerghus’ Prince. It is not brewing; it has been festering under his skin for years.  
She pretends to not see it, like a stitch that's come out of place. Hopes that if no one else spots it or comes too close to brush against it, then it won't bleed all other them. There is a worse fear, that one day he will discover that it's there and in an attempt to fix it, pull out each stitch one by one til the wound is open and raw. Then when the infection hits, he will believe that he needs to be fixed from the inside, so he'll begin sinking his fingers deep into the wound pulling at whatever he thinks is causing this sickness. And when she arrives at the scene he will be bloody and too far gone, having pulled out everything inside, all he'll have left is his own self-pity with his intestines and guts tangled in tragedy and-  
  
_Tap, tap, tap._  
  
She does not know fear, remember that? But she does know their ritual.  
It begins with Dimitri reaching out a hand, balancing her and refusing to move away. Lithe fingers tap against her back, once, twice, three times, trying to draw the attention from her fevered silence to see that she's okay. She nods and he smiles, not anticipating the sickness of him pulling away - _no, please, don't._  
  
‘Puppy love?’ She offers as they watch Edelgard’s cape flutter behind her. The laugh she earns in response removes any trace of trouble from his face.  
She has also learnt that is enough for her.  
  
  

  2. It begins slowly. Like dipping your toes into cold water. Always quiet, always still, there had been no reason prior to her current life to smile, laugh or cry.  
Until now.  
  
‘Hey, Professor,’ he teases in a wicked smile that uncovers perfect teeth. ‘Can you make that expression one more time?’  
‘Like this?’ She offers, making sure to smile so wide that she thinks her face will split open. He returns one of his own, and it's not the fake kind that he gives Dedue when the latter is worried about his king's wellbeing.  
‘It’s just… I’ve never seen you look so happy before. It’s downright mesmerising.’  
  
It continues to simmer in her until the official house battle, all of their hard work has finally paid off and the feeling of butterflies in her stomach may burst from her.  
‘You look so… happy,’ he says with a grin that makes her feel seen. ‘I love seeing you like this.’  
  
There’s an easy grace between them, a fluidity, a trust. She looks out for them, and they look out for her in return. She knows, however, that they have begun to place her on a pedestal, she is no longer the ice-cold mercenary that had been dragged by her hair to their monastery. Now she begins to resemble the heroes in Ashe’s knight tales.  
  
_You can always pretend,_ she tells herself, _you can teach, comfort, and heal as many of them as you can, but you will always be a demon. You can bind their wounds, wipe their tears, and jump in front of as many attacks as you want, but you will never be what they think you to be._ Byleth is nothing like the heroes of old. She can cleave an axe into a body better than any man, she spits mouthfuls of blood into her enemy’s face as a reminder of her mercy and eats men like Jeritza for breakfast.  
  
Remire village is the reminder that Dimitri is her equal.   
  
‘I’m sorry,' the boy whimpers, his head buried in his hands in shame. 'I'm sorry you saw that side of me in the village,’ Lost in his own world of self-loathing and disgrace, he's unable to sense her own anguish.  
  
She tries searching for the hunger that she brought the Ashen Demon into the world from. Tries to will it forward to spit in his face and tell him this is how the world is and to embrace what made them equals.  
  
She searches, only to find in that hunger's place a dull and soft ache that cuts to her core as small, ugly sobs come from the prince. She should leave, leave him in his misery and remind him that she is not kind-hearted as he believes. Instead, she clambers for his hand and focuses on the rhythm of her thumb swirling patterns of everything she could never say into his palm. There is a moment, where she is far too aware of how lovely her dainty hands look when being held by his and- _no_. That image is put to rest the second its brought forward, _this_ cannot go anywhere.   
  
His head drops into her navel as another sob rakes through his body. She lets him crumble into her and listens. Listens, and pretends to forget that he is suddenly all too familiar and yet a stranger.  
  
  

  3. 'You’ve changed,’ her father remarks as they sat by her mother’s grave. ‘You’ve been angry since we first arrived at Remire village. Now, you look so happy instructing the brats. Before the monastery, I’d never seen you bare your emotions like that. Not once.’  
  
Dedue gifts her a vast array of flowers grown by himself as thanks for helping his friend. She appeared immediately at her father's office afterwards, asking if they could visit her mother together.   
  
‘It’s because of the students,’ she murmurs, trying to bunch blues and yellow to fit on the grave. Their fingers were made for war and the fire that came with it, not for the fragility of flowers. She begins to think this was a stupid idea.  
‘Then perhaps it’s a good thing that we came to the monastery, if only so I could see your face lit up like that,’ her father gushes, which makes the lopsided flower circlet worth it. ‘Or maybe there was never any reason for us to leave in the first place.’ She stops. Fingers that worked on knitting stems into braids froze, as she studied her fathers rugged face.  
  
‘I thought I was born after you left the monastery?’ A part of her already knew, deep down. Her father was also aware of that, which explains the smirk that crawls across his face.  
‘Ah… I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I?’ A short chuckle escapes his mouth as he lays a garland of green over her mother’s headstone. ‘Another time, besides, I know this isn’t what you wanted to talk about.’ His smile disappears, concern washing it away. ‘Something’s troubling you.’  
  
The graveyard at night is quiet, far too late for anyone else to be out. No one can hear them here, and the desire of asking him to run away and return to their life prior to the monastery is overwhelming.  
  
'I'm not blind, I know what both the Church and the Flame Emperor are capable of,’ she states as her fingers pulled at the weaving at the bottom of the basket. Whoever was beneath the Emperor’s mask was someone unforgivable, she knew that. As were Solon and the Death Knight, the latter having some kind of inexplainable and desire-filled longing for her death. Yet, the way Rhea had reacted to those innocent civilians they'd been forced to raise arms against made her sick, which lead to fit filled sleepless nights. ‘Yet we have no other choice.'  
  
'You always have a choice.’   
'What? The Church?' The idea of spending the rest of her life under the scrutiny of Rhea’s gaze made her sick.  
'No,' he says calmly, 'something better than that.'  
  

  4. For the first time in her life, she wears a dress.  
‘Good,’ Sothis remarked as the pair examined how the dark material snaked its way toward her neck. ‘For a minute you had me worried that you were going to show up in those hideous stockings of yours.’  
  
‘Oh, thank the Goddess,’ Manuela exclaimed as they met outside the hall. ‘And to think I thought you were going to ignore my advice and turn up in-’ she stops midsentence, and beckons Byleth closer, pulling out a hairpin. ‘I’m just glad I got the size right, that bust of yours did not make anything easier!’  
  
Red heat flares in her cheeks, as she recognises that this is what embarrassment must feel like as Manuela critiques her breasts. Before she can beg Sothis to make the inexplainable churning in her stomach disappear, Manuela begins scooping her hair back, leaving nothing to hide her flushed face behind. She tuts at her reddened complexion, but still puts her arm through Byleth’s and drags her to the ball.  
  
Manuela soon ditches after Byleth hides in the corner of the room.  
‘What is wrong with you?’ Sothis hisses reappearing during the night. ‘You have run in front of axes, took down men twice your size and the first time you decide to ever feel nervous is at a _dance_? Unbelievable! If I had a body, I would be in the middle of that floor.’  
  
_This is not your body,_ Byleth warns, _and I will stay where I please.  
  
_She stands alone, eventually forcing herself out of her corner, and tries to remember that she has a duty to attend the ball on behalf of the monastery no matter how much her stomach tells her to run. Not that anyone was looking at her anyway, all eyes were on the crown prince and princess. No one is looking at her, yet her stomach tightens as she watches Dimitri whisk a red-haired student around the room. He was obviously taken, as was Edelgard, who wouldn’t want to dance with their highnesses?  
  
She resists looking anymore, and out of the corner of her eye, Claude nears. Before she has a chance to pull away, she is whisked onto the floor and if her heart could beat, it would be having palpitations.  
‘Not so bad, huh teach?’  
‘If I were your house teacher,’ she glares ‘I would fail you.’ He lets out a booming laugh and her fingers dig tighter into his shoulder as he whirls them across the room. She manages to pull Hilda onto the floor at the end of the song, allowing her enough time to make a break for her dorm.  
  
‘So, tell me,’ Sothis asks, ‘If your dorm was your destination, how did you end up in the Goddess tower with the Prince?’  
_Don’t_ , she thinks, _you have lost all rights after tonight_. A twinkle of mischievous laughter trails in the back of her mind before being interrupted by the Prince.  
  
‘It's quiet here, isn't it, professor? Do you know the legend associated with the Goddess Tower?’ She vaguely remembers the Gatekeeper excitedly gushing about something similiar.  
‘I've heard it.’  
‘Is that right?’ She notices a twinge of pink on his cheeks. ‘You don't strike me as the sort to enjoy stories like that. They say that wishes made in this tower will come true. I wonder who came up with such a silly notion.’  
‘You don't believe it?’  
  
‘Legends are legends, nothing more.’ The Prince replies, a bitterness coming over him as he glares out at the starlit night. ‘I doubt there are many who really believe that wishes can be granted. The goddess just watches over us from above... That is all. No matter how hard someone begs to be saved, she would never so much as offer her hand. And even if she did, we lack the means to reach out and grasp it. That's how I feel about her.’  
  
Heavy is the silence that settles between them, it is thick and suffocates any thoughts she may have had prior to his admission. A cold breeze whistles through the ancient walls, forcing her to cradle her bare arms.  
‘In any case...,’ he begins, his tone cheerier in an attempt to pick up the mood. ‘I suppose there's no harm in passing the time with silly legends. What do you say, Professor? Care to make a wish? We are here on the night of the ball. Why don't you try wishing for something?’  
  
The sky above is a thick curtain of ink, with small holes torn throughout allowing starlight to bleed through. She thinks of how often she had fallen asleep staring up at that sky, as her father spent his nights planning their next route and missions. She remembers how she spent most nights when they first arrived here wishing for them to return to that old routine of theirs. Then she remembers the way Dimitri looks at her, full of blind devotion and unflinching faith.  
  
She thinks of how much it will _ache_ to never have someone look at her like that again.  
  
‘I can't think of anything,’ she lies. ‘You go ahead.’  
'I suppose my wish...is for a world in which no one would ever be unjustly taken from us. Or...something along those lines.’  
‘That's a great wish,’ she whispers and she wonders what it must be like to not have to live for yourself, where your survival is not your biggest want.  
‘Thank you, although, at a time like this... perhaps it would make more sense for me to wish that we'll be together forever. What do you think?’   
  
Her mouth falls open in a failure to string words together. As soon she thinks of reminding him that _this_ couldn't happen, should never happen, a mischievous grin takes over his face as a booming laugh explodes from him.  
‘Well now, Professor! You must admit I've improved in the art of joke telling.’  
‘It didn't sound like a joke,’ she mumbles as a sickness seeps into her stomach.  
  
‘I'm sorry...,' he begins, a mournful expression on his face, yet is unable to look in her direction. 'I guess that was rather thoughtless of me. Honestly... I do regret saying such a thing. Please think nothing of it. I've blurted out irresponsible things like that to my classmates. Promises that we'll see each other again and the like. I have no business making such promises for the future. There are certain things that I must accomplish, even if it means risking my life. I may not even have a future to promise to someone’.  
  
Ignoring the metallic twistings of her stomach, she squeezes the top of his shoulder and whispers her understanding. A forced smile is given to her in return.  
‘We should head back soon. It's rude of me to keep you all to myself.’ She thinks of the ball, of all the girls who waited their turn to dance with the prince. All beautiful in ways Byleth could never be, soft, gentle, and so sweet that the thought of them already gave her toothaches. She spots her reflection, all scars and hardened skin in a dress that failed to hide how heavy breasted she was.  
  
_You are violence and sin, flesh and bone_ , she reminds herself, _you are not a girl they tell stories about standing next to princes._  
  
Still, he extends his arm with a small bow. ‘Shall we, professor?’  
She takes it, closes her eyes, and for a silent moment, pretends that she belongs.



**Author's Note:**

> Asystole - 'A state of total cessation of electrical activity from the heart, which means no tissue contraction from the heart muscle and therefore no blood flow to the rest of the body.'
> 
> Or: This was inspired by Hayley Williams' new album and me wanting to write this purely because I wanted to use the 'no beta we die like Glenn' tag.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I began writing this a few months ago and gave up due to really bad writer's block, I had a rough case of Covid last month so spent my time recovering from that through writing. 
> 
> (I'm taking a few artistic liberties with characterisation and plot, I know Annette (for example) doesn't really react that upset but I wanted to show the horror of war and its effect on the youth).
> 
> I'd really appreciate feedback or Kudos if you've got the time! It really helps me as a writer as I'm prone to periods of huge writers block :) Thanks!


End file.
